Art

Violence – John Doe

I had a day dream last night. You were holding me. We were trying. Mine again. Fingers holding fingers. Lifting you over my head and throwing you down. Down on the couch. Your hair covered my face like curtains.

My fingers running down your ribs. Counting each one out loud. Being delicate. Only you can bring this out of me.

Only you can bring this out of me.

I was just upset you wanted something else from me. I wanted to provide. I have forgiven myself; closure comes from within. Can you forgive me?

In my dreams my teeth grind into a paste. I pull it out and break a piece for every girl I have ever loved. But they’re mocking me, they’re always so mean. You’re watching and crying. And pleading for me to be a fucking man. It’s more of the same.

Then I’m lying on the sidewalk. The sun is white and beating. The girls come over in their skirts and take flash photos of me for Twitter. I’m looking at the outline of their labia through panties and feel the surface of rough asphalt imprint on my waist. I’m humiliated.

God watches and says nothing. I write things for people who hate me. And you grab my hand and take me through the trees.

In the clearing things are soft. We’re okay again, you’re mine. I can rest my head on your thighs, your thighs have my initials carved into them. White sun mottled on white scar tissue, JD.

Do you remember that? How you guided my shaking hand down your body? And I watched the Ikea knife jut in to your leg, and I closed my eyes as the hot blood dribbled down onto the carpet?

You said you were in ecstasy. And the next morning you showed me the heart you carved around it. I couldn’t believe you did that. I couldn’t believe you wanted to keep me forever. I thought forever belonged to men.

Now when I wake up, in our apartment in Michigan, I glide my tongue over the ridges of my teeth. Everything is still here. My teeth are stained and soft, but they’re mine. Mine.

When I was a child I wanted to be a mailman. And feel the breeze through cars with no doors. I wanted to be useful to people.

None of this is how I imagined. My sponsor told me if I stayed sober I would be promised a life beyond my wildest dreams. You can’t imagine your dreams; you have to dream them. Can you imagine that? The point is that you can’t.

I realized one day we all stop posting. And you look at your hands and feel them. Something happens, because things are always happening.

Certain things need to happen before I can stop posting. I’m afraid to say them out loud because I’m trying to not be a crazy person anymore.

And I’m watching him go viral for the first time. I’m happy for him. He’s winning you over with my words, and I can see you twirling your bleached blonde hair around your finger. You’re in ecstasy. I feel calm.

Because this is what happens when you die: they become you. And you watch them type on your laptop in your apartment, and you watch them win over the girl with your initials.

And then it’s over, because we’ve never been so back. And I’m thinking this is what made Kanye West a fucking star. You’re petting me, I’m letting it happen. And I’m posting while you pour McDonald’s orange juice in my mouth. I swish it around like Listerine and spit it into your hands.

You tuck my hair behind my ears.

Your hands feel like my mom’s.

And I feel like a fucking king.